


Quadrilogy: I Meet You There, and We Go

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Aftermath, Alternate Universe, Grief/Mourning, Inspired by Music, M/M, Recovery, Survival, The Pool Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:45:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't believe in second chances, but a final one will suffice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Meet You There, and We Go

**Author's Note:**

> A kink-meme fill for [**this request**](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5880.html?thread=21226744#t21226744): _Split perspective—Sherlock is both dying and keeping his bees. And by dying, I mean at the Pool, with John trying his best to save him. In his own mind, Sherlock is years off, keeping his bees. Change it any way you want, but what I really, really would love to see is Sherlock both living and dying, and not being able to distinguish which is real._ Title from "Garlands," by Tori Amos, to which song you may wish to listen before, during, or after reading.
> 
> (Originally written and posted to LJ in January of 2011.)

As the first bullet hits him, Sherlock pulls the trigger, and the explosion fades to a dull, soothing hum. _Not fair_ , Sherlock thinks as he draws breath to shout, but can't, because there's a second bullet, and John ( _didn't even make the first move_ )—

John is already there, arms strong and sure around him. 

Covering him as debris rains down, his breath harsh and frantic against Sherlock's sweat-slicked cheek. It's familiar ( _shouldn't be, they've never_ ), somehow disarmingly sweet. Warmth blooms, no, _burns_ in Sherlock's chest, seeps out between stuttering pulses: his heart and then John's, his heart and then John's, his heart and then John's.

*

He's waited years for this, would've waited forever.

Normally, John is wary of the hives, and Sherlock doesn't necessarily blame him. He treats Sherlock's stings with weary affection, implores him to consider the ridiculous suit, veil, and gloves. _Not fair_ , Sherlock tells him, tugging John in closer by the arm tentatively curled around his waist, wielding the smoker with his free hand. John's other arm slips around him. _They wouldn't get a clear view of me, nor I of them._

John mutters ( _don't know the difference_ ), tensing as a few drones whiz past Sherlock's shoulder, catch their wings on the greying wisps of his still sun-touched hair.

*

"Of course I know the difference," Sherlock says, coughing, only it's his head on John's shoulder instead of John's on his, and his lips are inexplicably wet. _Rain? Tastes like salt_.

"The difference between what?" John asks, and the relief in his voice is palpable, but unconvincing. It's as real as his hesitant fingertips struggling to pick at the sodden wreck of Sherlock's shirt. "Sherlock, talk to me. Keep going."

"Here," Sherlock says, letting his eyes drift shut again, "and there."

*

It's later, _much_ later. Evening. They're inside.

John undoes the buttons of Sherlock's shirt one by one and finds each sting with careful fingertips. Only two of them today. Sherlock reclines against the pillow, smug, while John applies a damp, stinging cotton ball first to one, and then the other.

"What on earth would I do if you were allergic?" he asks.

"Save me, I suspect," replies Sherlock.

*

"That's not funny," John says, and Sherlock can't help but notice that he's coughing between words, too. So much dust in the air, so very fine. Smell of something burnt. Hiss of steam, flicker of dying lights. He's given up on picking at Sherlock's shirt and has taken to propping him up instead, one arm wrapped about Sherlock's waist, the other hand busy checking the pulse-point at Sherlock's throat, and then his wrist—

"I meet you there," Sherlock tells him. "You make it."

"You're bloody well going to make it, too, if I have any say in the matter!"

John's frowning at him now, frowning very hard indeed. His hand drifts from Sherlock's throat to his cheek, and John's breathing is even harsher now than it was before. There's shouting beyond the mountain range of rubble, the jagged lines and shadows' sharp relief. But all Sherlock can hear is the hum, low and inevitable.

*

The hives are quiet at night, because the sound follows Sherlock into sleep.

And on this night that's like so many others, fraught with visions only half dreamed, Sherlock wakes with a start to the press of John's damp palm at his cheek.

"What did you dream?" John asks. "Your heart's racing."

 _Silence_ , Sherlock thinks. _The bees have gone out_.

*

"I dream of what it's like," he says with difficulty, and the words taste right in spite of the fact that everything else tastes wrong, "when we leave this place."

John is quiet for an unbearably long while ( _too quiet: no humming, no breath_ ) before he lets his forehead drop to rest against Sherlock's, smudge of ash and grit and sweat mixed with something far too heavy to be tears. He presses one hand over Sherlock's heart, and there's warmth again. The promise dazzles him. It _stings_.

"What's it like?" asks John, finally, his voice thick with the promise of rest.

"There are bees," Sherlock says, fumbling loosely for John's hand at his chest. Finds it, closes it in his own. _There_. "It's peaceful," he says, squeezing John's fingers.

John laughs, but it bubbles from him strangely, more like a sob. It's beautiful.

"Then what are we waiting for?" he asks. By now, his voice is almost a whisper.

"We'll go," Sherlock murmurs, turning his head, and their lips almost touch. He doesn't believe in second chances, but he does believe in last ones. "Like this—"

*

Sherlock drifts again, lulled into slumber by John's kiss.


	2. The Half-Open Window

**_I'm racing there_ **

Sally gets there first, because that's her job. The night air is damp and crisp, the sky just a little too clear. She hugs herself tightly as she hands out orders, pointing when one of the new recruits doesn't seem certain of where the yellow tape needs to go. She only knows two things, and they're the only things she needs to know: one, that this is the work of that nut-job who's been baiting Sherlock, and two, courtesy of the comment threads on The Science of Deduction, that Sherlock is in there.

Her mobile goes off at about the same time one of the team approaches her, hesitantly, from the opposite side of the yellow tape. Her job's to keep the team inside and the public out. She holds up one hand, taking the call.

"Bad news. John wasn't at Baker Street, and the landlady doesn't know where he is."

"What about that girlfriend? Friend? You know, the one from the surgery."

"Sarah was expecting him," says Lestrade, slowly, "but he never showed."

"Fuck," Sally mutters, and the recruit standing in front of her blanches a shade paler. "Sorry, gotta go," she tells Lestrade, "keep me posted," and hangs up. This young man's only been on the job a week, and he already looks as if he's having second thoughts. Understandable, given what he's probably seen. "What is it?" Sally asks.

"We found a body," he says. "Chambers is convinced we'll find more."

"So am I," Sally says, and her throat constricts. "Any ID on the one you found?"

"No," says the young man. "Nice clothes, though. What's left of them."

"Then get back in there," Sally says, "and get me some answers."

He nods and flees.

Sally's mobile rings again, a shrill, panicked descant.

"What's going on down there?" Lestrade demands.

"One body so far," Sally tells him. "You'd better send Anderson and his lot."

"Any ID?" asks Lestrade, anxious.

"Not yet. Sharp dresser, they tell me. Could mean Sherlock _or_ the bomber."

"Jesus," mutters Lestrade, after a few moments' silence.

"Listen, I've got Chambers here," she says. Her heart's in her throat as she watches him approach, and it's then that she realizes she knows something else, something that she wishes she didn't, beyond a shadow of a doubt. John's in there, too.

"I'm coming," Lestrade replies, and hangs up.

"Two more," says Chambers, simply. He takes hold of Sally's hand and places a small, charred rectangular object in it. It smells of burnt plastic, but it slides open easily when Sally tugs on either side. The lens collects a harsh, knowing pool of light.

Chambers is already gone, and Sally is too stunned to wipe her eyes.

 

**_Lovers_ **

Getting past Sally, letting go of her, leaving her there to lean bonelessly against the patrol car until Anderson races to her side seconds later, is one of the hardest things that Lestrade has ever done. But it's not as hard as what he's about to do. 

He lifts the tape and ducks under.

Chambers is with him inside a minute, explaining the situation. The fires are out. So far, they've discovered six bodies amidst the rubble, one of which is probably the bomber, three of which seem to be accomplices and whose guns suggest that they were snipers. They've found more of the guns, but not bodies to go with. It's possible that a few of the would-be victims had escaped. Snipers on the loose. Fantastic.

"You've left out two," says Lestrade, grimly, donning the mask Chambers hands him.

"I'm sorry, sir," he says, "but I thought you already knew. They're over there, beyond that collapsed wall. We've cleared a path." He shifts to stand in Lestrade's way, as if to shield him from the inevitable. "If you'd rather not—"

"Bloody _let me through_ ," Lestrade hisses, shoving him aside.

Lestrade has seen his fair share of devastation. Fires, explosions, shootings, stabbings—but none of it, no, _none_ of it comes close to tripping his way through this brief maze of shattered concrete and tile, with too little time to prepare himself. The team has set up lamps and markers to help them find their way. Almost there.

 _They're together_ , he thinks, stumbling out of the shadows and into artificial light.

The sight is oddly comforting, insofar as such a sight _can_ be. 

The exit wounds in John's back trip off a sharp, terrible pang in Lestrade's chest, but he doesn't slow his approach, doesn't dare stop until he's able to crouch next to them and study the strangely peaceful tableau. John's body covers Sherlock's protectively—there's no _almost_ here; in life, their pose would be that of lovers. _It's like Pompeii_ , thinks Lestrade, dazedly, tempted to curl their lifeless fingers as tightly together as they must have been before the last spark of life had fled. They're forehead to forehead, Sherlock lying flat beneath John. John's head is turned ever so slightly. Their bloodied lips touch, just a bit off-kilter. Sherlock's mouth is slightly open, and John's lips seem molded to the corner of it—perhaps a cruel trick of the chiaroscuro.

Lestrade covers his face, his eyes stinging, and shouts.

"Chambers! Get Anderson in here! _Now_!"

 

**_Circus_ **

Anderson does his job, _because_ it's his job, and that's that.

For all of Sally's joking that one day it would be Sherlock Holmes who'd put the body there, he'd never honestly thought Sherlock Holmes would one day _be_ the body. Just because somebody hates you and you hate them doesn't mean that they aren't part of it all, doesn't mean you actively wish they'd just vanish. Especially not if they're as _useful_ as Sherlock Holmes. _Well_. As useful as he once had been.

There's not much evidence to collect, at least not on the bodies, as the situation's pretty cut and dried for such a fucking mess. They're already reconstructing a hostage situation just like the ones they've already seen, except John had been the hostage, and, at some point, the semtex-loaded coat had been removed from his person and deposited on the floor, where a single bullet shot from John's handgun detonated it. Miraculously, the gun hadn't been far from John and Sherlock, although heaven knows they'll have to wait for fingerprint analysis to determine which one of them fired.

Seeing Sally upset isn't what has him shaken. It's seeing _Lestrade_.

The DI is standing beside Anderson as the last handful of photographs are taken. Now comes the tedious part: separating the bodies, coping with the chaos of notifying family members. Someone's already called John's sister, sounds glad that the parents are long dead. Mycroft Holmes had contacted _them_ almost as soon as the explosion had been reported. And now Lestrade's on the phone with him again, nodding repeatedly, his mouth set in a taut, pained line. Anderson bends to help Chambers roll John away from Sherlock, but Lestrade grabs his arm as he hangs up the phone.

"Wait."

"Why?" Anderson asks, perplexed. "There's nothing left to do."

Lestrade looks at the bodies for a few seconds, and then lets go of Anderson's arm.

"Someone from Bart's is coming to collect them," he says.

Anderson bristles. "But that's—"

"Not their jurisdiction, I know," Lestrade sighs. "But it is now."

 

**_Trampled Flowers_ **

Molly's hand starts to shake on the receiver. She fumbles behind herself for the arm of the chair and sinks down in it, the wheels bearing her backwards ever so slightly, light as a feather. She says _What?_ a full three times before the voice on the other end of the line (Priyanka from reception, she thinks) manages to get the message across.

_Sherlock is dead. John is dead. They're being brought to Bart's._

Molly blinks at the desk, but it's no use; the whole room is swimming, spinning—

"Who..."

_Jim. Jim from IT is a murdering psychopath, and he's dead, too._

"Look, I know that you knew them. That's why they had me ring up to tell you. Bad enough you're on the late-shift alone—listen, do you want to go home? I can send—"

"No," Molly says, firmly, crushing a handful of tissues to her eyes. She hangs up and sits there for a long time, blowing her nose loudly in the silence. She plays back through the information, which, in spite of her shock, she'd got in the end. She'd always been very good at remembering lectures, even when distracted. _Sherlock and John and Jim are dead. They're bringing John and Sherlock, but not Jim._

"Just as well," she sobs aloud. "You _bastard_."

She's put herself back together by the time the doors swing open and the gurneys are wheeled in, one after the other. Once the paramedics are gone, Priyanka stands hovering in the doorway, asking if she can get Molly anything—tea, coffee?

Molly ignores her and bends over the longer of the two body bags, her hands shaking as she works on a pair of gloves, carefully pulls the zipper down just far enough. A whimper catches in her throat, but she doesn't shy from the sight, parting the bag carefully. There's dried blood on Sherlock's lips. His hair's a mess. She strokes it back from his forehead, and then presses her palm gently against his colorless cheek. 

Through the thin layer of latex between his skin and hers, he's cold.

"Molly?" Priyanka asks, her voice trembling. She shrinks back into the hall.

"Coffee," Molly whispers. "Two sugars, black."

 

**_Winter_ **

Early the next morning, Mike visits the mortuary, because it's an honor.

Molly has already phoned in sick, which is unsurprising, given what she'd been through the night before. Mike has lost his fair share of loved ones, but he can't really imagine losing someone with whom he'd never even got a chance. Someone with whom he'd never even _had_ a chance. Priyanka claims Molly had hardly cried at all, had gone about her duties to both of them with quiet dignity long into the hours after midnight. 

Mike closes his eyes. He can't imagine it, which is part of why he's here.

He can't remember the name of the intern who greets him with downcast eyes, leads him to where his friend's body is being kept. He hadn't been prepared for the bone-numbing chill, but then, that's cold storage for you. He ought to have worn his coat. The intern uncovers John's head and shoulders without a word and leaves quietly. 

When he's finished paying his respects, Mike can see himself out.

"Can't think of anybody who deserved this less, hey?" he asks, trying his best to smile, but it's really no use. John's features were never meant for such unnatural stillness, but, cleaned of blood and whatever else, he at least looks peaceful. Mike wonders if it would've been better if he'd never made it home at all.

 _Your fault_ , says a voice in his head. _You should never have introduced them_.

Mike knows that's not the way of it, not really, but the fact remains that John Watson—and Sherlock Holmes, come to it—might not be dead now if he hadn't set them on course for utter ruin. He rummages in his pockets for a handkerchief, finding them empty. His sleeve will have to suffice. He lays a hand on John's covered arm.

"I'll see you again sometime, mate. God willing. You take care now."

 _And take care of Sherlock, the mad bugger, rest his soul_ , he thinks, and goes out.

 

**_The Marriage_ **

Sarah doesn't have a black dress, and she hadn't been about to go buy one, either.

It's strange to be here, more strange than sad. John had been a dear friend, but for such a short time, and she'd never got the chance to find out if he could have been something more. To her right, hatted and veiled, Mrs. Hudson sniffles quietly into a handful of tissues. To her left, sober and silent, Harry Watson stares at her hands tightly folded in her lap. It's the first time she's ever met John's sister.

Sarah wouldn't have expected a single funeral if it had ever come to this; she'd always imagined—and, yes, she'd imagined it a fair few times, what with the introduction she'd got to the kind of danger they'd courted on a regular basis—that the families would have wished for separate, private affairs. She hadn't known the Holmes family were Catholic, although she _had_ known that John's family were Anglican. It's a wonder, then, that the parish priest has even permitted such an arrangement. 

From his vantage point at the pulpit between the parallel caskets, Sarah can't help but think the poor man is performing a marriage of sorts, what with the way his outstretched hands seem to join them to silent assent shot through with the soft sound of sniffling and the occasional muffled sob. That's Molly, Sarah knows, just behind her, and in the front pew, Sally Donovan is leaning heavily on DI Lestrade's shoulder.

She's still not listening to what's being said when Mycroft Holmes replaces the priest. If she listens, she'll fall to pieces. Instead, she listens to those assembled around her and thinks about _why_ , tentatively reaching over to take Mrs. Hudson's hand.

"I'm dreaming this," Mrs. Hudson says, scarcely a whisper. "I've just got to be."

Sarah squeezes her fingers, at a loss for words.

Harry steals a glance at both of them, and what Sarah sees in her eyes is resentment.

 _You're loved_ , Sarah thinks. _And you loved each other more than we'll ever know_.

 

**_The Mimosas_ **

Mrs. Hudson knows she's not fit to be entertaining, but, bless them, they've got nowhere else to go. She can't imagine that Mycroft would have been up to hosting such a thing; as it was, he'd drifted out of her flat at least twenty minutes ago and she'd seen neither hide, nor hair of him since (although she'd heard his footsteps on the stairs and had tried her best not to think about what he's doing _up there_ ).

Not many have come, and that's a relief. There's the Detective Inspector and Sally in the corner, talking quietly to that poor young lady from Bart's. _Such a pretty thing_ , Mrs. Hudson thinks, taking another sip of her drink. _She'd have done for one of them, anyway, if they'd not been so set on each other_. 

Sarah, always so helpful, has taken a round of plates off to the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson hadn't set out much, just some crackers and cold-cuts and cheese, although for drinks she'd turned out the whole cabinet, and for that, everyone seems grateful. Especially John's sister, although she knows she ought to be concerned about that. 

Harry is sitting alone on the sofa, drinking a glass of red wine. Before Mrs. Hudson is aware of what she's doing, she's on her feet, swaying a little at her hip's protestations, making her way across the room. She's on her third mimosa, and it's almost gone.

Harry doesn't even look up as Mrs. Hudson takes a seat beside her.

"Where's your lovely girl, then?" she asks kindly, having at least had it on good authority from John that Harry and Clara had begun to patch things up.

"Home," Harry says, and it's clear she's _trying_ to smile, but her eyes are raw and it's not working. "Up north. Her sister's having a baby. I've been waiting to hear."

"That's wonderful news," says Mrs. Hudson. "Sorely needed at a time like this."

"I used to think," Harry says, lowering her eyes again to her glass, "that I'd get a letter or a phone-call. That it would've been different. That he'd have been over _there_ , not here at home, and that I'd at least have a reason to hate him for it. I never wanted him to leave. I _never wanted him to leave_."

Suddenly, Harry's wine is on the floor, and she's sobbing on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder.

"Hate him a little," Mrs. Hudson murmurs. "If it makes you feel better, I suppose. It's an awfully foolish thing he did. Both of them did, really."

"Sod that," Harry hiccups, and, to Mrs. Hudson's surprise, she's laughing. "How can I bloody well hate my own brother for having fallen arse over teacup for some brilliant wanker who made him feel more alive than he'd felt in years?"

Mrs. Hudson cradles her, rocks her like a child.

"You can't, love. Forgive me. Neither can I."

 

**_The Half-Open Window_ **

Mycroft stands motionless in the doorway of 221B for quite some time.

The flat is precisely as they'd left it, save for some signs of tidying-up that can only have been Mrs. Hudson's doing. John's laptop is open on the desk, and Sherlock's violin lies abandoned on the floor next to the sofa. A slight breeze steals in through the window—the plastic they've taped in place has come loose, flaps eerily like a disembodied wing—and stirs some loose papers on the floor. Mycroft crosses the room, finally, and gathers them up, knowing there's some chance that they might be important. It wouldn't do for his brother to have unfinished business.

It's a curious sensation, his reason for so many years of worry _slipping away_.

Devastating, too, of course. Their mother has been in hospital ever since Mycroft had broken the news; she'd been at high risk for a heart attack for quite some time as it was. They'll have a private service on the grounds after the cremations have been carried out, for family only. Mycroft will extend an invitation to Harry Watson, but he expects that she'll refuse. And she would be right to, Mycroft supposes, given that he will have covertly spirited away a handful of her brother's ashes.

Mycroft steps up to the window and tugs the plastic free, breathing in the scent of not-too-distant rain and the sounds of Baker Street below. What brought Sherlock to this point he knows in part, of course, but John will in many respects remain the one piece of the jigsaw for which Mycroft grudgingly admits he may never find a place.

What matters is that Sherlock _had_.

And Mycroft cannot begrudge him that, not as long as he lives.


	3. I Broke Them All for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red Chapel asked me to unbreak her heart and handed me [**a Brandi Carlile song**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8pQLtHTPaI) to bolster the prompt.

_**All of the lines across my face** _

_Some days_ , Sherlock reflects, _I have no recollection of aging_.

If he were being honest with himself, which he knows he very rarely is, he'd admit that it's actually _most days_. And it's not that he's _old_ , not really, not in the strictest sense of the term. It seems like only yesterday that his reflection in the bathroom mirror had been smooth and unperturbed. He frowns and touches the fine lines traversing his forehead, squinting to count them. That's when John wanders in.

"They'll turn into wrinkles if you're not careful," he teases, setting one warm hand on each of Sherlock's hips. It's distracting and perfect. He still smells of sex and sleep.

"How old am I?" Sherlock asks. "I seem to have lost track."

It's John's turn to frown at his reflection over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Christ, I don't know. Thirty-two by now? Does it matter?"

Sherlock shrugs. " _You're_ thirty-six, insofar as I'm aware."

"God, no, I'm—" John's frown deepens. "That's strange."

"Isn't it," Sherlock says, his eyes narrowing, tapping the edge of the sink.

"Don't feel bad about it," John replies, lightening the mood. "I've got loads of them."

"What? Pieces of information you can't remember, for no good reason at all?"

"No," John says, pressing his mouth to Sherlock's neck. "Years starting to show."

While Sherlock picks at Mozart's K. 376, John spends the afternoon working on an article. He never gets any responses from the medical journals, which irritates him to no end, but he's content to keep trying. Sherlock lowers his bow and massacres a difficult sequence, determined just to force it _out_. John winces and shuts his computer, taking instead to rubbing his temples. Sherlock puts down the violin.

"Would you rather take a walk?" He'd meant to be curt, but his voice is fond.

John smiles up at Sherlock from his chair. "I'd like that."

It's early spring, and already the hives are humming. John hangs back while Sherlock checks on frame after frame, pleased to see that nectar from the hellebores, tulips, daffodils, crocuses, and hyacinths in the garden are being put to use.

Neither one of them knows how the flowers got there.

 

_**These stories don't mean anything** _

John wonders if the stories they tell each other after dark are memories.

"And you're sure you didn't just dream it?" he asks. "Turning up on some poor woman's doorstep with evidence that'd kill her husband for sure?"

"I don't know," Sherlock says, his face half buried in the pillow. "It's quite vivid."

"That sounds like a nightmare to me. How did it end?"

"Mrs. Hudson was relieved. Not the kind of reaction one would expect."

The name sets off a flutter of panic in John's gut.

"Mr. Hudson must've been quite a piece of work," he says carefully.

"Must've been," Sherlock agrees. "I don't remember what he was in for."

"Was it a long time ago, Sherlock?"

"That I dreamed it, or—?"

"That it happened," John clarifies tentatively.

Sherlock makes an annoyed sound, and then rolls onto his side so that his back's to John, tugging John's arm over himself like a blanket. "Not so long ago," he sighs. "Maybe even recently. Isn't it enough that I can remember her name?"

"The trouble is, so can I."

"That doesn't mean anything. Wait, what was the question?"

"What's real and what isn't," John says.

Sherlock turns to him, tucked under John's arm, and gives him a piercing look.

"What else do you remember?"

"About what?"

"Life before this unbelievably sickening bliss. Sickening is fine, by the way."

John kisses Sherlock's eyelids. "I remember the first time I saw your face."

 

_**Traveled across the ocean blue** _

What Sherlock loves most about living here is the nearness of the sea. And John, of course, but John is constant where the sea is changeable. It brings storms and gifts.

"Why don't we ever swim?" John asks, wriggling his toes in the wet sand.

"Because the water's freezing," Sherlock says. "You're welcome to it."

"Some other day," replies John. "We've got all the time in the world."

It's chilly, but not enough to make Sherlock shiver the way he's shivering now.

"Have we?" he asked, bending to investigate an object rolling in the surf.

"Why not?" John's tone is gentle, teasing. "Is there evidence to the contrary?"

 _Not exactly_ , Sherlock thinks. _There's no evidence at all_. He picks up the object and brushes it clean. A vertebra, not human, stained and worn by the waves. His index finger fits through the center. He tosses it with all his strength, watches it vanish.

"You could've saved it," John says, taking his hand. "Run some tests."

Sherlock shakes his head. Shells are one thing, but bones are another. He remembers charred shards beneath his magnifier, blank stares and cracked fingernails, bloodied flesh and tangled hair. More dreams, perhaps. Nightmares, as John had called them.

"No need," he said. "It was from a horse. Death by natural causes, no foul play."

John chuckles, as if he finds this amusing, but falls suddenly quiet.

"I remember water," he says. "Play of light and shadows. Do you?"

Sherlock nods, contemplating the waves' white crests, the rosy glow of sunset.

 

_**Crossed all the lines, broke all the rules** _

There comes an evening when John remembers something else. 

The dream—or _is_ it a memory?—unfolds with startling precision. Sherlock's pale, ash-covered face is as vivid as the hot slip of blood beneath his fingertips. Labored breath in both of them; pain beyond bearing. He closes his eyes, sets down his book, and breathes in desperate, shaking lungfuls of air. He can still breathe. _Why?_

Sherlock, perched over at the table, looks up from his microscope.

"Are you all right?"

John waits until his heart rate has slowed before responding.

"Losing you would be...the worst thing imaginable. I don't think I have words."

Sherlock fixes him with a concerned look. "John, I'm not going anywhere."

"It's not a question of you going. It's a question of you being taken."

Sherlock stares past him and out the window, towards the orchard and the hives.

"I'd bring you with me," he says. "Or you'd come. Just like always."

John took a slow breath, scarcely daring to trust his sense of relief. 

"Sherlock, do you dream—"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "But I don't dwell on it. We're here."

 _The greatest mystery of all_ , thinks John, _and he's content not to ask questions_.

 

_**Hiding the words that don't come out** _

Sherlock exists for these moments most of all: press of skin against cooling skin, John's breath ghosting evenly past his ear. One of Sherlock's ankles is tangled in the sheet, and the other is still hitched up to the small of John's back, drifting downward by the second, slicked with sweat. John sighs and slips free of him, collapsing.

"How is it," John marvels, "that I haven't done my back permanent damage?"

"Where you're concerned, I'm remarkably ergonomic," replies Sherlock, yawning. They're a mess, the bed's a mess, _everything's_ a mess, and he doesn't care.

"Everything fits a bit too well sometimes," John murmurs.

"It fits a bit too well all the time," Sherlock says. "Not that I'm complaining."

"Does it bore you?" asks John, softly.

Sherlock snorted, pinching John's side.

"I won't dignify that with an answer. It's beneath you."

"That much is true," says John, laughing.

"That wasn't _quite_ a pun, so I'll overlook it."

They lie in silence for a while, forehead to forehead, John's mouth pressed to the corner of Sherlock's. Neither one of them will say what they both know.

To acknowledge it would mean surrender.

 

_**They don't know what I've been through** _

The scar on John's shoulder is proof of past trauma that he's not meant to forget. Sherlock runs his fingers over it in endless circles, never asking _when_ or _how_. He must already know. Their dreams, if not the same, tend to overlap.

"Another thing you haven't got," John says, running his fingers up Sherlock's arm.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asks, lowering his mouth to John's shoulder.

"Proper scars. There's hardly a mark on you."

Sherlock shifts against him. "I had my appendix out."

"Surgeries don't count."

"Then you have only one proper scar. That's not an overwhelming lead."

"Next thing I know, you'll be claiming bee stings count."

"Maybe if I scratch my next one enough—"

John swats his backside. "Sherlock, _no_."

"It won't do any harm," Sherlock insists. "And then we'd be even."

"I like you as infuriatingly perfect as you are, thanks."

John kisses Sherlock soundly, and he hums into it, pleased. As they draw apart, John traces one high cheekbone with his thumb and wonders if the wrinkles will ever show, if devotion and belief are enough to bind them exactly as they are.

" _Like_ me?" asks Sherlock, his brow furrowed dubiously.

"Love you," John corrects, smoothing Sherlock's hair.

Another strand of the knot in his chest unwinds.

 

_**Where I've been, how I got to where I am** _

"Why the middle of nowhere?" John asks, edging nearer to the hives than he ever has before. "Why a house with a back garden and fruit trees? Why beekeeping?"

 _Because it's where I can keep you_ , Sherlock thinks. _Keep you safe._

"Doesn't everyone dream of something like this? A fine and private place?"

John's lips set in a firm line as Sherlock sets aside another frame for harvesting.

"We're not most people, Sherlock. _You're_ not most people."

"I never got the chance," Sherlock snaps. " _We_ never got—"

"Would you have taken it, then, if you'd found it?"

They stare at each other, the space between them filled with lazy buzzing.

"You quoted Marvell," says John, wonderingly.

"You asked for it," Sherlock tells him, not quite smiling.

"So you saw your chance, and you took it?"

Sherlock resumes smoking the hive, pulling up the next frame. They'll have honey for a month or two, and John will try his best to pick out the scents and flavors of the orchard and their garden. He'll be wrong, of course, and Sherlock will correct him.

"Better late than never," he says, and means every word.

 

_**And it's true that I was made for you** _

The sea isn't as cold as Sherlock had been fearing, not now that it's late summer and there's hardly any rain in sight. Still, Sherlock clings to John as if he's convinced the waves might carry him away. John doesn't mind, though. It'd be mad if he did.

"I didn't imagine the sea," Sherlock admits. "I'd never thought beyond the orchard."

"Surprising," John says, tangling his legs with Sherlock's. "You seem to enjoy it."

"I never did as a child. One too many close calls."

"Little wonder, that your first case was an apparent drowning."

They drift in silence for a while, pitched up to the precipice, yet content.

"You don't find it lonely, do you?" Sherlock asks.

John shakes his head, plucking a strand of seaweed out of Sherlock's hair.

"I came to you out of nowhere," he says. "None of the pieces fit, _really_ fit, until now."

Sherlock tightens his arms around John's shoulders, his eyes anxious.

"I preferred it when everything fit a bit too well."

"Still does," John replies, "but the difference now is that I understand _why_."

Sherlock gives him a questioning, frightened look. It's achingly familiar.

"Then tell me," he sighs, "and hope we don't fall apart at the seams."

"Isn't it obvious?" John says. "I was made for you, and you made this place for us."

"It defies all logic," Sherlock mutters. "Flies in the face of _everything_ —"

"Let it rest, Sherlock. I will if you will. For the rest of our days."

Sherlock widens his eyes, smiles bright enough to outshine the sun.

" _Gladly_."

John no longer wonders if they're in a story or a memory, a dream or eternity.

 _What matters_ , he thinks, _is that it's true._


	4. I Dream a Highway (Back to You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, a Gillian Welch song by the same title is to blame for this finale.

Peacehaven, she'd told Lestrade. It's just outside of Brighton.  
  
Why not Brighton? he'd asked. Plenty of accessible beaches there.  
  
Because they'd never have stood for it, she'd insisted, holding her chin high.  
  
And so, here she is, with the Detective Inspector (so kind, bless him), pulling up to the simple wooden bollards lining the end of a desolate residential street called Phyllis Avenue after an hour and a half on the road. They'd made no stops, her hip be damned. It's an important errand.  
  
"Here we are, then," says Lestrade, opening the car door for her. "Peacehaven, the Promenade. Not much to look at, is it?"  
  
It's not, she supposes. Sand and gravel crunch beneath her shoes as she passes between the bollards and onto the dirt track that passes for a proper sea-front walk. It's isolated, gritty, nothing pretty. There's a chain-link fence between her and the exposed chalk beach. To her right, down the sweep of coastline, a white rise of cliff holds more homes.  
  
"You'll like it here," she tells the parcel in her arms as she approaches the fence. "No tourists or any such nonsense. It's quiet. Nothing but the waves for company."  
  
Lestrade follows a few steps behind her, his head down and his hands clasped behind him. He comes up beside her at the fence and rests his elbows on one of the wooden posts, watching as she unwraps the parcel. He looks fragile, like he hasn't slept in days. She wonders what his team must make of it.  
  
She'd been shocked to learn that Mycroft hadn't gone through with the burial as planned, that he'd made the same decision as Harry. They'd met after the funeral service, or so she'd heard. Sorting out what to do with the belongings, probably; she expected the flat would be empty within a fortnight. Mycroft had given her Sherlock's violin, and Harry had given her John's cane. She has them propped carefully in a corner of her living room. They keep her company of an evening. She understands why Sherlock had loved that skull.  
  
Inside the brown paper is an inlaid wooden box, nothing fancy. No hinges, no locks: the lid shifts beneath her arthritic fingers with no effort at all. She hands it to Lestrade, who mutters Christ under his breath and covers his eyes briefly with one hand.  
  
"Don't you start," she warns him. "If you do, I'll start, too."  
  
He laughs shakily. "Point taken."  
  
It's a windy afternoon, fresh with lately departed rain. Lestrade protests when she hands over the box, too, but there's no way she'll be able to do this with her hands full. She climbs over the fence, snagging her trousers in the process, but she manages it. It's not a high fence. Lestrade, looking impressed, hands the box back to her.  
  
"There's fight left in you yet," he says, smiling.  
  
"I don't know about that," she tells him, turning to the water. "They're all I had left."  
  
"Not true, Mrs. Hudson. You've got Harry. You've got Sarah. You've got me."  
  
"Thank you, Detective Inspector," she says, kneeling to where the water laps at the toes of her shoes. She dips in a finger. It's cold. She wonders if kids swim here in summer.  
  
"Please," Lestrade says. "Greg."  
  
"Off with you," she says, entrusting her boys' ashes to the sea.


End file.
